Born in Seireitei

Today, I woke up earlier than usual and happened to catch the moment Kensei was returning from his daily visit to his friend.

As part of my morning routine, I was drinking tea on the second floor in the calligraphy room, naturally with the window open. That's when I spotted Kensei making his way back to the estate, his expression that of someone unsure whether to feel upset or not.

Although I haven't visited Mashiro myself, I can guess the reason for his mixed emotions.

The green-haired girl has finally been moved to a no-visit protocol in a specialized ward. There, nothing and no one can interfere with her currently fragile psychological state except the healer.

As the one footing the bill, I'm privy to every detail of the girl's condition. And for the kind of money involved? You bet I'm keeping track.

Mashiro has been placed in a clinic for the wealthy and noble, under the direct care of medics from the Fourth Division. Hospitals and clinics where shinigami healers personally oversee treatment are considered the best and most expensive.

This is because only shinigami practice the magic of the Way of Return. Ordinary doctors, sadly, must rely on old, numerous, but less effective methods. Traditional techniques like acupuncture, herbal remedies, broths, powders, or unique family-based reiryoku methods still hold sway in the Soul Society.

The Okikiba family supplies much of these medicinal goods from the outer districts to the capital, including to the Fourth Division. If I were the one sick, it's possible a Lieutenant might even make a house call for me in a serious case—and free of charge.

But since this is just a waif from Rukongai... securing her a place was easy, but the price was steep.

There are only five shinigami-run clinics in all of Seireitei, yet they rake in as much money as the rest of the capital's hospitals combined. Only the Kido Corps brings in more gold for the Gotei 13.

If Mashiro does eventually become a shinigami and Lieutenant in the future, and if she feels the need to repay the cost of her treatment... she'd be working it off for six or seven years. That kind of money could buy a house in the capital, and not just anywhere, but closer to the central areas of the White City.

For all the minimalist depiction of Seireitei in the anime and manga, it's a full-fledged city in reality. Yes, it's for the elite, the nobles, and the shinigami, but it's still a city. Everything you'd expect of a city in the World of the Living exists here, including a vast population. Someone has to provide comfort and entertainment for all these nobles and shinigami.

And just because the city is surrounded by an enormous circular wall that can fall into place doesn't make Seireitei isolated. The First Districts of Rukongai are effectively suburbs of the capital, home to minor nobles, branch families, and thousands of souls who live there but work in Seireitei.

The White City itself has long transformed from a restricted zone into one massive, elite district without number. It's this very area where, a couple of centuries from now, a certain orange-haired fool with a giant cleaver strapped to his back will cause quite a stir.

Here's the reality: in Seireitei, shinigami make up about a third of the population, or half during the best years without losses. And the folks in black shihakusho want days off, salaries, fun, and, if they're lucky, to attend one of the grand festivals—seasonal ones or the once-in-a-decade festival honoring the Soul King.

All of that is, of course, present here. Shopping streets, restaurants, tea houses, entire neighborhoods hidden behind lush greenery or low mountains, concealing hundreds of residential homes and ordinary people living normal lives in the Soul Society.

After all, the White City also houses the entirety of civilian governance. The Central 46 and all branches of officials, their deputies, guards, clerks, couriers, and their families...

Don't think everything here belongs solely to the shinigami. Ownership is split about evenly between military forces and civilian administration. And often, noble families have members in both. Like mine.

Seireitei has everything you'd associate with the word "capital," with the added bonus of minimal crime thanks to the shinigami. Amid this bustling chaos, the territory of the Okikiba family stands as a pillar of serenity, with its tranquil gardens and ponds of red carp, providing a peaceful backdrop to life.

How Wonderful It Feels to Be Home...

That's what I was pondering this morning when I spotted a familiar white-haired head making its way along the winding stone path through the gardens from the gate.

From the second floor, the loud slurp of tea broke the stillness. The white-haired teenager below snapped his head up at the sound.

"Morning, Kensei," I greeted lazily, resting my elbows on the windowsill and enjoying the morning sun.

"Morning," grumbled the sullen teen with a curt nod.

Faced with his half-hearted politeness, I could only smile.

"I told you it's better not to visit Mashiro for now. But you still rushed over first thing in the morning, didn't you?"

The young Muguruma glanced around, ensuring no one else could overhear our conversation, and then shared his troubles. Despite the height of an entire floor between us, the morning quiet made it easy to talk.

"She keeps throwing tantrums when I'm not there," Kensei grimaced. "Well, she used to."

"Oh?" I responded, not particularly interested but keeping the conversation alive.

"For the past few days, she's been... quiet. Too quiet. She hardly speaks and looks right through me like I'm not there."

"Is that so?"

Kensei shook his head, then spoke with more confidence.

"But the healer says it's all fine and progressing as it should. Soon, the real Mashiro will be back... and I bet she'll wring my neck for all the times I didn't stop her childish antics. They told me she'll remember everything."

"You've got enough blackmail material on her to last centuries," I teased.

Kensei smirked faintly but didn't show any pleasure at the thought of tormenting his friend for all the chaos she'd put him through.

"I miss the normal Mashiro," he admitted painfully. "When she's back, it'll be worth all the suffering."

"You've got a noble soul, shorty," I sighed, finishing my tea.

"I'm not short!" he snapped, immediately fired up.

"Don't get all worked up, you'll grow," I replied lazily, waving my hand dismissively, which only aggravated him further. "They say hanging on a pull-up bar helps. Anyway, head to the kitchen—they were making steamed buns earlier."

"Fine," he muttered through gritted teeth, clearly annoyed but no longer as gloomy.

He disappeared into the mansion, muttering under his breath.

"And drink your milk in the mornings, or you'll never grow!" I called after him.

The sound of an angry kick against the wall and more muttering only amused me further. I couldn't help but laugh, listening to Kensei stomp around downstairs with an exaggeratedly heavy gait.

Kensei is naturally hot-tempered but also incredibly determined. It's endlessly entertaining to see how quickly he flares up over the smallest spark yet tries to maintain control. The faces he unconsciously makes during these moments are priceless—great for scaring kids or amusing me, ha!

Though there's a clear divide in our social standings, it doesn't stop me from seeing the kid as just another boy—the son of my father's friend, which is what he is. Almost like a distant relative, really. That's how everyone in the household treats him.

I've never noticed any disdain or condescension toward him from the staff, and that's helped him feel more at ease with me. It's also made it easier for me to interact with him—and occasionally tease him.

It's much better than treating him like a lifelong debtor who could never repay me. Which isn't even true—if anything, my family owes him for the loyal service of the elder Muguruma, not the other way around.

Maybe that's why Mashiro always drove him up the wall. It's hilarious to watch him get angry but never explode. It's sinful, but sometimes it's just impossible not to poke fun at the guy.

I haven't yet managed to push him to the point of making an anime-style "anger mark" on his forehead—though I doubt that's genuinely possible—but I'm trying.

Still, he really does need to learn how to stay calm over trivial things. If he doesn't, any enemy with a few sharp words could easily provoke him into doing something stupid. For a future warrior, such a flaw is an unforgivable weakness.

What a Great Excuse for My Habit of Teasing an Innocent Teenager.I nodded to myself, pleased with my genius and magnificent hypocrisy.

A breeze rustled the leaves, bringing a refreshing chill.

"Such a wonderful morning," I mused, smiling like a contented cat and sipping my tea.

For some reason, I suddenly thought of Yoruichi and young Byakuya Kuchiki. The future Goddess of Flash used to infuriate the poor guy so much that he'd lose his composure entirely and chase after her in fits of vengeance. For a Kuchiki to crack their signature stone-faced poker face like that... it must have been something spectacular.

What we didn't get to see behind the scenes is probably far more interesting than just a stolen hair ribbon or a game of tag. It's hard to describe how much my curiosity nags at me sometimes. I've seen members of the Kuchiki Clan at gatherings and in the city—they don't even flinch at jokes that have the entire room roaring with laughter, let alone smile.

But I'd never push Kensei to that point, would I? I'm not a monster. I just admit it's ridiculously fun to tease people you know, especially in an era with no internet or TV.

Without laughter, it's hard to get through days filled with grueling training. You could go mad otherwise. And where else would I get my amusement? I'm not about to order a traveling circus to perform at the estate.

I keep myself entertained by tormenting the guards during training and poking fun at Kensei. That's about it. Without the sense of progress and a few hobbies like calligraphy, I might've gone a little crazy. Training every day like three elite soldiers rolled into one—and not just any soldiers but masochists—isn't exactly great for one's psyche.

But I can't deny the progress. What seemed impossible a month ago now feels like a warm-up before real training. The adaptability of a spiritual body under stress and the wonders of reishi never cease to amaze me.

I mean, even Ichigo Kurosaki's mortal friends managed to take on ranks of Shinigami after just a few weeks of training. So why should I be any different?

Speaking of underestimated talent, let's talk about that quiet guy—Sado Yasutora. Everyone seemed to overlook that walking powerhouse of potential, probably because of Ichigo's overwhelming presence. Even back then, I was surprised at how little attention Sado got.

From a powerless mortal to someone capable of fighting Aizen's Arrancars—and even a lower Espada—within a year! How insane is that?

If it weren't for the orange-haired freak and a fully-trained Quincy standing beside him, Sado Yasutora could've been the hero of his own story. But next to Ichigo, everyone else feels small and harmless. He overshadowed both enemies and allies alike.

I've come to terms with it, but I can only imagine how much jealousy will gnaw at the others when they finally face someone like Kurosaki Ichigo... Oh, how I'd love to see their faces when they realize his potential and compare it to their own achievements.

He compresses the grueling efforts of centuries into mere months. And his friends aren't far behind—even the Quincy is catching up fast. These aren't just kids—they're apocalypse in diapers squared. Kidnap a friend? Let's just demolish the capital of an entire dimension. Why hold back?

Brr... I get Gin Ichimaru's words now. He said it right to Ichigo's face during their fights: "You're a scary kid." And Gin himself is one scary bastard!

Ugh, better not dwell on it. I'll bet anything that Urahara or Aizen—and probably both—plus the Hōgyoku are the culprits here. No way nature produces 15-to-17-year-olds who can obliterate veterans like Aizen or the Quincy King. No way! I'd suspect Ichigo of being the reincarnation of the Soul King himself if the guy wasn't still alive.

Yeah, no way... Key word: for now.

For now, nothing threatens the existence of all worlds simultaneously. There aren't any lunatics slicing through half the capital with one attack while screaming "Getsuga!..."

No sinners escaping from Hell. No disgruntled Gotei 13 enemies reaching Captain-level power—they're still sulking in the shadows of the Three Worlds, nursing their grudges. Peace and relative calm still reign.

For the two-hundredth time, I thought about the future while absently adding a spoonful of jam to my tea, savoring the taste of peaches in the tart brew.

Such a calm, peaceful morning without any cares or worries. The breeze is refreshing, the sun is warm, and the tea is delicious.

"Thank goodness I haven't lived to see those days," I murmured into my cup, taking another sip of the hot drink. "What a nightmare that would be."

---

The morning was enjoyable, training before lunch went smoothly, but as noon approached and people sought shade and coolness within their homes, everything changed at the Okikiba estate.

Out of the ordinary schedule for his visits, my famous grandfather, Okikiba Genshiro, made an appearance. And he wasn't in the best of moods.

I was sitting in the garden gazebo, eating lunch at a small round table, enjoying the shade and the coolness of the nearby pond. I froze mid-bite, chopsticks hovering near my mouth, when I saw my grandfather striding briskly along the path toward the house.

He glanced in my direction, but before I could smile in greeting, he turned away. He didn't even slow down, let alone greet me or nod in acknowledgment.

"Hm." I frowned, lowering my chopsticks and suddenly losing my appetite.

A strong feeling settled in my gut—something was definitely wrong. Casting one last look at my unfinished meal, I left the table and headed toward the estate.

At the entrance, I ran into a puzzled servant in a gray uniform.

"Have you seen my grandfather?"

"Yes," the servant replied, snapping out of his thoughts and bowing slightly. "He ordered not to be disturbed…"

"And?" I pressed, sensing some unspoken tension.

"…And he also requested a lot of alcohol be brought to his quarters. Then he reiterated that no one should disturb him."

"I see. You're dismissed."

The servant bowed again and quickly hurried off toward the kitchen. Chewing on my lip in thought, I decided not to bother my grandfather. Clearly, something unpleasant had happened at work.

Everyone needs time alone, without anyone prying into their soul—I understand that. So, I left him undisturbed for the rest of the day and evening.

However, when the next morning arrived, and I noticed servants carrying fresh supplies of alcohol to his quarters again, I began to worry. Breakfast lost its taste, and the weather didn't lift my spirits either—grayish clouds stretched across the sky, hiding the usual warm sun.

"Hey, you there," I called toward the door to the room.

A crack opened, and a curious servant's eye peeked through.

"How's my grandfather?"

The servant turned away, whispered something to someone nearby, and then answered softly, "He's drinking a lot and staying silent. He sleeps a little, and when he wakes up, he starts drinking again."

"I see... That's all."

The crack in the door closed, and the illusion of being alone returned.

A couple of hours later, some servants returned to the estate, bringing with them rumors concerning Okikiba. I learned of them soon enough—but only after training.

Today's session was what I liked to call bodily sadism, but my grandfather termed it preparation for advanced Hakuda techniques—the Style of Pure Strikes.

It involved the horse stance: legs wide apart, back straight, arms extended forward. Oh, and the extra challenge—holding water jugs at arm's length. The first time I saw it demonstrated, I almost laughed—it looked like something pulled straight from a Shaolin monk training manual.

But when my grandfather assumed the same pose in a split second and unleashed a punch that sounded like it broke the sound barrier, my grin disappeared.

The Style of Pure Strikes, or Hakuda as most know it, is a combat discipline designed for battling monsters.

It's not some casual boxing to settle disputes with a drunk neighbor—it's a style capable of shattering a Hollow's mask with a punch, tearing through their steel-like flesh with fingers, and breaking their bone armor with kicks strong enough to topple concrete pillars as thick as ancient trees.

That's the essence of true Hakuda.

Did the demonstration light a fire in me? Absolutely. Since then, I haven't missed a single grueling physical training session. This is precisely what's needed—strong technique and a strong body as the foundation. The mightier the body, the stronger the Hakuda. So, every day, whether I want to or not, I spend thirty minutes strengthening myself with awkward poses that inevitably lead to muscle cramps.

Hoho, including the signature Shunpo technique, focuses more on agility, coordination, and reishi control.

Kido emphasizes spiritual energy density, flow control, and, of course, knowledge.

And Zanjutsu—no matter how strange it sounds—is simultaneously the simplest and the most complex of the arts.

Throughout the history of the Soul Society, there have been over eight thousand styles of swordsmanship using Asauchi, the spiritual katana. Some are basic and straightforward; others are advanced, complex, or secret techniques passed down through family lines. These can further branch out, customized for each Shinigami depending on the form of their released Zanpakuto.

As far as I know currently, there are only twelve Masters of Zanjutsu, and only two of them have mastered all the techniques and styles—every single one of the eight thousand at the highest level.

Commander-General Yamamoto is universally recognized as one of them. The other is a more elusive Master—the First Kenpachi, now the Captain of the Fourth Division, who pretends to be an ordinary healer. Yet her blade has tasted more blood than anyone else's in history. A river of blood wouldn't suffice to describe the carnage her sword has wrought. A terrifying woman... I hope I never meet her.

Masters of Hakuda are far more numerous, particularly in the Onmitsukidō and the Second Division, though not all of them practice forbidden techniques like the Soul Destruction Strike. That technique is comparable to the Quincy's lethal arrows. Most of the time, their style is focused on dealing with humans—live captures or instant, clean kills. Everything is designed for human opponents. Few possess the reiryoku necessary to crush a Gillian with their fists, as Kensei could one day do.

Masters of Kido have always been rare—it's a complex art. Yet there are plenty of skilled practitioners even outside the Kido Corps. Over the centuries, spiritual magic has ceased to be exclusive to Shinigami, trickling into noble families and eventually spreading further in smaller ways.

True combat Kido, however, remains tightly controlled by law, forbidden to anyone outside the Gotei 13 or the Shinigami noble families. Why? Did anyone really think the Noble Families would cut themselves off from such an advantage? Kido is an ace up their sleeve—one they won't relinquish.

Not that it matters much. Demon Magic is so challenging for average minds and souls with weak reiryoku that it might not have needed to be banned in the first place. Sometimes, not just Lieutenants but even Captains fail to demonstrate competence in Kido. It's a demanding path, but those who persist are greatly rewarded.

This applies to all Four Paths of the Shinigami. Otherwise, why would I push myself so hard to learn, enduring all this effort, if it were easy?

Even that orange-haired monster will only properly use Shunpo from Hoho and scratch the surface of Zanjutsu's grandeur. Everything else about him stems from his monstrous reiryoku reserves and his Zanpakuto. Ichigo is talented, but it's simply that difficult—and it takes time. A lot of time.

To be honest, neither Kurosaki Ichigo, nor the First Kenpachi, nor even Yamamoto Genryusai fills me with dread. Hell, not even the Quincy King—not to mention him lightly.

Aizen Sōsuke—now that bastard scares me to death.

In the anime, he was just intelligent and cool. Yes, a strong guy, undeniably impressive... But in reality, now that I understand how difficult all these techniques and methods are—things I'm only starting to learn?

This man is a monster. As he himself declared, without dispute from anyone, Aizen Sōsuke reached the pinnacle of all Four Paths of the Shinigami. Not the ordinary limits most Shinigami hit—each person has their own ceiling. No, he reached the theoretical maximum.

I'm terrified even to imagine competing with him. It's insanity. He's a genius beyond any measure of optimism, determination, or hard work. People like him are born once in a thousand years. Just look at the Commander-General—two thousand years of history, and the only one who could ever ascend to his level would be Aizen.

Every time someone praises me, I'll compare myself to Aizen internally. With that kind of example, getting an inflated ego seems virtually impossible. That he was defeated is nothing short of a divine miracle.

So no matter how much sweat pours or how loudly my joints protest during training, just remembering the monsters who inhabit this same world with me renews my strength and chases away any hint of laziness with a hysterical shriek.

I had just finished my training and was wiping sweat off my bare torso with a towel when a familiar servant in a gray uniform appeared at the training grounds. Of average height, with black hair and eyes, he looked so typically Japanese that his plainness stood out. Yet, like all the servants, he was quiet, so I only noticed him when he stepped onto the white sand.

"What is it?" I asked irritably, tossing the towel onto a bench.

No one is allowed to interrupt my training sessions—that's a rule in this house.

"Forgive me, sir!" The servant immediately bowed. "This unworthy one thought you had finished."

"Lucky for you, I have. Is it something important?"

"Rumors, sir," the servant said, straightening up. "About the old master."

"Is my grandfather still drinking?"

The servant nodded cautiously, speaking softly.

"Some of the servants overheard in town why. But they're just rumors..."

"Stop dithering like a wrung-out rag—speak."

The servant cleared his throat into his fist.

"Well, it seems…"